Tick Tock
by nine miles to go
Summary: Zoey asks Demetri what he saw. He only lies because he loves her. Flash Forward WARNING: I wrote this before Sendunken, Ep.3, so these were my own wild inferences--YAY for having a category now!


Disclaimer: Don't own anything, don't sue. Much love. Haha.

This appears to be the second fanfic for the show, which is going splendidly right now, if I do say so myself! ... which I do! Although I sincerely hope John Cho lives. And forgive me for taking liberties with his fiancee, because she hasn't actually been introduced on the show yet, as far as I know. Thanks much for reading!

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Tick Tock 

Zoey curls up next to him on their dingy couch and tucks her lean body into his. He feels her hair tickle his neck. He watches her, all bright-eyed and fresh and young, and the pit of guilt gnaws progressively deeper in his gut.

"Demetri," she says, his name weightless and breathy on her lips. His shoulders tense and she feels it, but for a moment she doesn't speak. He hears the lull of the television in the background but he can't tear his eyes away from her.

"I feel like I've been chasing you these past few weeks," she confesses.

"The blackouts—"

"I know," she interrupts, sympathetic. He opens his mouth like a fish out of water, wanting to say something, wanting to reassure her, but all he has is excuses, and a million reasons why he doesn't deserve her in all the moments they have left.

He is labeled now. Marked. He has his own expiration date. Thirty-two years old, and he is already finished, already walking dead among the living.

Every time he sees the calendar on the kitchen wall his heart skips a beat. He hasn't told anyone; it would somehow make it real, it would somehow seal his fate. So the words linger precariously on his tongue and beat like an ominous drum in the back of his head, louder and louder, and every second that the clock ticks all he can think is _time, time, I'm running out of time—_

"—finally caught you," she finishes, and he curses himself for not listening to what she was saying, because he knows that these moments are precious and few.

"Hmm?" he mutters. He wracks his brain and flounders for a moment, wondering what it is she's talking about, when he sees the wedding magazines all spread out on the coffee table and knows.

"You've been so busy," Zoey sighs, "that we haven't been able to discuss anything about it for weeks. And I know—I know there's a lot going on. But I just thought . . ."

"You're right," he says, his throat thick. "We should—we should plan some."

When she smiles her lips spread across her face like a wave lapping on the shore. "Well," she says, sounding pleased with herself, "My mom called the day. We got the day we wanted at St. Augustine."

"The day?" he echoes.

"March 15. Remember?"

And his heart leaps forward, terrified and aching and consuming his chest. For a moment he doesn't breath. She's perusing the magazine, she doesn't see his face contort in horror or his eyes stinging.

"I remember," he says softly, but all he hears is the woman's crisp, cryptic voice on the phone, miles and miles away, _murdered, murdered, murdered. _

"Zoey—"

"I thought pastels. For the bridesmaids," she says in a rush. "And flowers—roses. Pinks and yellows. And your niece, she could be the flower girl. And the cake—" She stops suddenly, almost painfully, and says, "Well. It doesn't matter all that much."

He bends his neck to look down at her, but she's staring holes into the television. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Zoey . . ."

"It's just—"

"It'll be okay," he says, as if the words are band-aids, as if they'll plug the holes in their valves just waiting to burst open.

"But—Demetri, listen." She sets the magazine down and looks him straight in the face, her eyes uncertain and flitting across his face, searching him. Her next breath is shaky, and the words spill out like an accident. "You never told me what you saw."

He tries to smile and laugh it off. "Well, you never told me what you saw," he says, as if he can wave it off, tease her about it.

She purses her lips. "I was in a house. It was ours." She's still reading his face like a map, like she's lost and can't find the right street. "I know it was ours . . . and it was night, and I was sitting on this couch, but you weren't there."

He's frozen. Behind him he hears that damned clock ticking—tick-tock, tick-tock. He feels his heart thudding. He feels the rush of fear, of anger, of insurmountable regret, welling inside of him like a balloon that's too thin to hold any more helium. It isn't fair. Not to him, and not to Zoey. God, how can he do this to her? How can he break her heart?

"Demetri?" And this time when she says his name there's a hitch in her voice.

It seems like just yesterday life was rock and roll and graduate school papers and late nights wandering in the city together. He sees the first time they met at the bowling alley; he sees her at their graduation; he sees the night he proposed, and his eyes flit to the ring on her slim finger, and he knows that he can't do this, he can't inflict this burden on her.

"Where were you?"

"I was there," he spits out. The lie is like venom. Poisoning him. But he's already rotten to the core. "Behind you. I was watching you from the hall."

"You were there?" she breathes. All at once she deflates, sinking into him, burying her head into his chest. He feels her sobs shaking against him, and as she hiccups, "you were there, God, I thought you were gone, _God_," he strokes through her hair with his hand, his anguish mirroring her relief.

Unexpectedly she bursts away from him like he's burnt her, her eyes red-rimmed and wild. "And you're so sure, Demetri? You're so, so sure?"

"Yes," he says without hesitating, and even manages to laugh a little bit. "I'm sorry you ever had to worry."

"I love you," she says, desperately. "You can't ever leave me, do you understand? I love you."

His stomach is in knots and his heart is sinking but he holds to her fiercely, wrapping his arms protectively around her shoulders, pressing her close to him, and even though he can still perceive the unwelcome ticking of the clock behind him, he imagines that this moment can last forever, that this moment can transcend all the chaos and horror of the past few weeks and that they can just . . . be.

"I love you, Zoey," he breathes into her hair.

_Forgive me._

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Fini!


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